AS  THE  WIND  BLOWS 
■i  L  BY  EDEN  PHILLPOTTS 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

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AS    THE    WIND    BLOWS 


AS  THE  WIND  BLOWS 


BY 


EDEN    PHILLPOTTS 

AUTHOR   OF    "the   GIRL   ANU   THE    FAUN,"     "  DANCE   OF    THE    MONTHS, 
"EVANDER,"    ETC. 


LONDON:    ELKIN    MATHEWS 

NEW   YORK:    THE   MACMILLAN   CO. 


THE    RIVERSIDE    PRESS   LIMITED,    EDINBURGH 


CONTENTS 


ON    EYLESBARROW       . 

7 

NOCTURNE      . 

8 

THE    HUNTING 

9 

THE   STRIKING   HOURS 

10 

NIGHT 

II 

SWINBURNE    . 

12 

JUNE 

13 

BELLS    OF   VARENNA  . 

14 

IN   THE   VALLEY 

i6 

gaffer's    SONG 

i8 

SCANDAL 

19 

WELCOME 

20 

THE    NEOLITH 

21 

IN    A   WOOD    . 

24 

GHOSTIES    AT    THE   WEDDING 

26 

DAWN    WIND 

27 

DART 

28 

BY   RUNDLESTONE       . 

30 

A   SONG   TO   SILVER    EYES 

31 

ENOUGH 

32 

SONG   OF   THE    LARCHES 

32 

A    SONG 

33 

Buonarroti's  "  dawn  " 

34 

CONTENTS 


A    DARTMOOR    STREAM 

35 

THE    FALL 

37 

LAPWINGS       . 

■        38 

TO    AN    OPAL 

39 

JACK    O'    LANTERN      . 

40 

THE   OLD    ROAD 

41 

THE   DOUBTFUL   ONES 

42 

LITANY   TO    PAN 

44 

A    SONG 

45 

CHERRYBROOK 

46 

THE    hunter's    MOON 

47 

VOICES 

48 

WIND   OF   THE    WEST 

50 

THE    LOVER    AND    THE    WIND 

51 

A    SONG 

52 

THE    GRAVE    OF    KEATS 

53 

TIGER                 .                  .                  .                  . 

55 

THE    PUDDLE 

61 

VISION 

62 

IN    GALLIPOLI 

63 

THEN    AND    NOW 

65 

VIGIL 

66 

DARTMOOR    NIGHT      . 

68 

THE    FRUIT   OF    THE   TREE      . 

70 

WHERE    MY    TREASURE    IS 

80 

ON   EYLESBARROW 

Hither,  at  set  of  autumn  sun, 
Each  golden  child  of  Hesper  flies 
From  gardens  of  old  deities, 
Where  Zeus  the  maiden  Hera  won. 

Their  footsteps  kindled  stone  by  stone 
The  time-worn  barrow,  where  it  stands, 
Above  wide,  valley  border-lands, 
Austere  and  imminent  and  alone. 

Their  fingers  smoothed  each  granite  frown 
And  blossomed  where  no  flow'r  may  live, 
And  gave,  what  never  flow'r  can  give. 
Of  living  flame-light  for  a  crown. 

And  from  their  flickering  kirtles  fell 
A  gleam  upon  its  stubborn  ways, 
To  touch  their  nakedness  with  rays 
Of  amaranth  and  asphodel. 

O  Hesperids,  remember  him 

Whose  sun  is  westering  to  the  change. 

Along  uneven  paths  and  strange, 

By  shadowed  aisles  and  frontiers  dim. 

Flash  but  one  token,  pure  and  rare, 
From  the  abundance  of  your  grace. 
For  many  a  storm  hath  stripped  the  face 
Of  this,  his  life,  and  left  it  bare. 


7 


628529 


ON  EYLESBARROW 

Dance  but  one  measure  in  a  heart 
Sad  and  unprofitably  proud, 
Ere  to  your  chariots  of  cloud 
Ye  leap  again  and  so  depart. 


NOCTURNE 

Twilight  and  falling  dew ;  a  little  bell 
And  answering  bell,  from  campanile  far. 
Chime  and  are  silent;  one  triumphant  star 
Conquers  the  after-glow,  that  like  a  shell. 
Nacreous  and  rose,  vibrating  as  it  dies, 
Faints  on  the  lifted  forehead  of  the  snow, 
Falls  from  the  deepening  purple  of  the  skies 
And  falling  fades  upon  the  hill  below. 
Unnumbered  olive-trees,  like  hooded  wights, 
Stand  solemn  in  their  companies  and  grey; 
Mule-mounted  men  go  clattering  down  the  way 
To  yonder  galaxy  of  earth-born  lights. 
The  crepuscule  from  sea  and  radiant  land 
Hath  drunk  the  colour;  night  lifts  up  her  hand 
For  peace  before  the  coming  of  the  moon — 
All  darkling  heaven  will  be  silver  soon. 


THE   HUNTING 

When  red  sun  fox  steals  down  the  sky, 

And  darkness  dims  the  heavens  high, 

There  leap  again  upon  his  tracks 

The  eager,  starry,  hunting  packs. 

They  gUtter,  glitter,  gold  and  green, 
With  sparks  of  frosty  fire  between, 
And  Dian  bright  as  day ; 
While  in  the  gloaming,  far  below, 
Brown  owl  doth  shout  "  Hi !     Tally  Ho 
Sun  fox  hath  gone  away  ! " 


To  music  of  the  spheres  they  sweep 

Over  the  western  world  asleep ; 

Then  in  the  east,  with  sudden  rush. 

Sun  fox  shall  whisk  his  white-tipped  brush. 
The  field  is  fading,  gold  and  green, 
With  sparks  of  frosty  fire  between. 
And  Dian  growing  grey ; 
While  morning  leaps  the  hither  hill 
And  herald  lark  shouts  with  a  will, 
"  Sun  fox  hath  gone  away  !  " 


Oh,  Huntress  fond  and  silly  stars — 
White  Venus,  fiery,  futile  Mars, 
In  vain  your  pack  ye  whirl  and  cast 
Upon  the  marches  of  the  vast ; 

9 


10  THE  HUNTING 

In  vain  ye  glitter,  gold  and  green, 
With  sparks  of  frosty  fire  between, 
And  Dian's  arrows  fly 
In  shattered  shafts  of  ebbing  light ; 
For  ne'er  shall  day  be  caught  by  night. 
And  sun  fox  cannot  die. 


THE   STRIKING   HOURS 

My  brother,  can  the  heart  of  ocean  say 

When  winds  may  woo  her  bosom ;  when  the  ships, 
Or  sudden  galleon  of  an  azure  day, 

Shall  fling  her  foam  to  rainbows  ?     Can  eclipse 
Hide  up  their  silver  when  the  full  moons  will? 

Are  the  cloud-cisterns  of  the  latter  rain 
At  beck  of  every,  summer-starven  rill  ? 

Life  cannot  call  the  time;  nor  man  may  feign 
That  he  shall  haply  choose  when  he  would  have : 

To  will  the  striking  hours  he  is  not  free. 
That  chime  between  his  cradle  and  his  grave, 

Or  speed,  or  slow  the  hands  of  destiny. 
A  bunch  of  stars  upon  the  vine  of  heaven 

Grows  ripe  and  falls  and  passes  when  complete ; 
The  galaxy  of  grapes  to  your  mouth  given. 

Bursting  their  bloomy  chalices,  are  sweet 
One  little  moment ;  for  they  will  not  stay 

Your  pleasure  and  their  consummation  hold 
While  you  misdoubt  and  linger  and  delay 

Before  their  cups  of  purple  and  of  gold. 
When  to  a  feast  the  gods  would  make  you  free 
At  their  own  time,  or  never,  shall  it  be. 


NIGHT 

Another  day  has  ended  and  again 

The  fading  emeralds  of  the  quiet  west 

Grow  dusky  o'er  the  hill-top  and  the  plain, 

Dying  along  each  drowsy  vale  and  crest, 

Where  Earth  lifts  up  her  bosom  to  the  breast 

Of  Night  oncoming.     Now  once  more  she  brings 

To  the  least  folded  flow'r  her  primal  rest, 

Opens  the  mantle  of  her  darkenings 

And  sprinkles  the  white  dew  from  both  her  starry  wings. 

The  moth  and  beetle,  owl  and  flittermouse — 
All  creatures  that  do  call  the  moon  their  sun — 
Steal  silent  forth,  each  from  his  little  house. 
They  mount  and  fly,  and  others  creep  and  run. 
Where  fox  and  hare  and  brock  have  all  begun 
The  task  of  living.     Now  alert,  awake. 
They  seek  their  joy  and  substance ;  every  one 
Pads  out  into  the  dingle,  heath  and  brake; 
While  hungry  fishes  stir  the  silver  of  the  lake. 

For  servants  of  the  day  another  boon 

Brings  Night,  and  as  the  working  hours  decrease, 

Lifts  up  her  evening  star  and  sickle  moon 

To  disenthral,  unfetter  and  release ; 

Bidding  the  long-drawn  tale  of  labour  cease. 

She  comes  with  twilight  healing  for  each  smart 

Of  soul  and  body,  lays  her  unguent  peace 

With  fingers  cool  on  every  aching  part ; 

Anoints  the  tired  flesh,  soothes  the  day-foundered  heart. 


12  NIGHT 

She  asks  no  worship  from  our  drooping  eyes ; 
She  needs  no  prayer  to  minister  our  plight ; 
Hers  not  our  little  deeds  and  destinies, 
But  still  to  smooth  the  pillow,  lower  the  light ; 
Play  nurse  for  every  world-aweary  wight ; 
Comfort  and  succour ;  at  a  touch  redeem ; 
And  pour  her  ancient  anodyne  of  might : 
Omnipotent  sleep,  inviolate,  supreme. 
Insensible  as  death,  without  one  sigh  or  dream. 


SWINBURNE 

Children  and  lovers  and  the  cloud-robed  sea 
Shall  mourn  him  first ;  and  then  the  motherland, 
Weeping  in  silence  by  his  empty  hand 
And  fallen  sword,  that  flashed  for  Liberty. 
Song-bringer  of  a  glad  new  minstrelsy. 
He  came  and  found  joy  sleeping  and  swift  fanned 
Old  pagan  fires,  then  snatched  an  altar  brand 
And  wrote,  "  The  fearless  only  shall  be  free  ! " 

Oh,  by  the  flame  that  made  thine  heart  a  home, 

By  the  wild  surges  of  thy  silver  song. 

Seer  before  the  sunrise,  may  there  come 

Spirits  of  dawn  to  light  this  aching  wrong 

Called  Earth  !     Thou  saw'st  them  in  the  foregrow  roam  ; 

But  we  still  wait  and  watch,  still  thirst  and  long. 


JUNE 

June,  who  goes  garlanded,  who,  never  sleeping, 
Laughs  from  behind  the  eastern  hills  at  night. 
And  flashes  to  the  hidden  skylark  keeping 
His  morning  watch  and  thrilling  from  the  height 
Ere  yet  the  stars  are  dim. 

June,  who  unseals  all  fountains  at  their  sources, 
And  pours  life  like  a  river  overflowing 
In  proud  and  passionate  desire,  who  courses 
To  throne  our  feeling  higher  than  our  knowing 
And  heap  it  to  the  brim. 

June,  when  the  new-born  find  their  feet  and  wings. 
Scent  the  sweet  grass  and  air  and  taste  their  being, 
And  in  their  wanderings  and  wonderings^ 
Their  motion  and  their  hearing  and  their  seeing 
Conquer  the  earth  and  sky. 

June,  with  her  feast  of  fiow'rs  and  lyric  rapture. 
Whose  fair  days  fly  the  fleetest  of  the  year. 
So  pure  and  fresh  that  only  youth  may  capture 
Their  rainbow  shapes  without  a  thought  of  fear. 
Without  a  single  sigh. 


13 


BELLS  OF  VARENNA 

Drowsy  and  sweet  along  the  Larian  Lake 

Your  melody  is  stealing  ; 

Your  fitful  pealing 

Floats  on  the  pinion  of  a  summer  night. 

Aloft  the  murmuring  upland  echoes  wake 

And  wing  upon  the  mountains, 

Whence  flying  fountains 

Thin  their  wild  whiteness  out  o'er  many  a  height, 

Bells  of  Varenna, 

Bells  of  Varenna — 

Ancient  bells, 

Solemn  bells, 
Bells, 
Bells. 

A  tall  grey  campanile  and  a  spire 

Of  russet  red  upspringing. 

Meet  for  your  ringing, 

O  most  melodious,  mediaeval  chime. 

Arise  and  point  with  fane  of  moonlight  fire 

To  forests  and  snow  ridges 

And  far-flung  bridges 

And  ruined  castles  of  the  olden  time, 

Bells  of  Varenna, 

Bells  of  Varenna — 

Dulcet  bells. 

Dreaming  bells. 
Bells, 
Bells. 

14 


BELLS    OF   VARENNA  15 

Along  a  floor  of  crystal,  where  the  moon, 

From  her  blue  mansion  bending. 

Awaits  the  sending 

Of  your  deep  benison  and  soft  "Good-night," 

Canorous  cadence  comes.     Too  soon,  too  soon, 

Faint  off  the  last  far  throbbing 

And  silver  sobbing 

By  Como's  patined  pathway,  still  and  bright, 

Bells  of  Varenna, 

Bells  of  Varenna — 

Sleeping  bells, 

Weary  bells, 
Bells, 
Bells. 


IN  THE  VALLEY 

Heather  and  potentilla  fold 

The  rocks  with  purple  and  with  gold  ; 

The  burn  beneath  sings  clear  and  cold. 

Here  man  and  woman  kept  a  tryst ; 
Here  often  met ;  here  first  they  kissed 
Under  the  white  and  secret  mist. 

And  here,  within  this  holy  place, 
He  came  and  thundered  her  disgrace, 
And  looked  his  last  upon  her  face. 

And  while  he  cursed  her  ruined  name, 
Her  young  soul  fainted,  sick  with  shame, 
Before  the  death  knell  of  her  fame. 

Had  heath  and  potentil  but  known 
His  wrath  and  her  despairing  moan. 
Their  twinkling  flowers  had  surely  flown. 

And  had  the  burn  but  felt  that  cry, 

Or  understood  their  agony, 

She  must  have  wept  her  silver  dry. 

The  grey  hills  heard  the  lover  take 
An  oath,  that  made  their  echoes  ache, 
To  hate  all  women  for  her  sake. 

i6 


IN  THE   VALLEY  17 

The  sunshine  saw  the  woman  cast 
Herself  to  earth  when  he  had  past, 
Her  Httle  pitcher  broke  at  last. 

But  heath  and  potentil  are  gay  ; 
The  waters  sing  upon  their  way, 
Though  all  this  happened  yesterday. 

For  June  must  joy,  though  joy  departs, 
And  life  must  laugh,  though  sorrow  smarts, 
And  buds  must  break  as  well  as  hearts. 


GAFFER'S  SONG 

The  boys  don't  hoe  like  they  used  to  do, 

And  the  maids  don't  sew  Uke  they  used  to  do ; 

The  hen  don't  lay 

And  the  hound  don't  bay, 

And  the  wind  don't  blow  like  it  used  to  do. 

The  men  don't  drink  like  they  used  to  do. 

And  the  girls  don't  wink  like  they  used  to  do ; 

The  bud  don't  swell 

And  the  flow'rs  don't  smell ; 

And  the  folk  don't  think  like  they  used  to  do. 

The  milk  don't  cream  like  it  used  to  do, 

And  the  ewes  don't  teem  like  they  used  to  do ; 

The  corn  don't  kern 

And  the  sun  don't  burn  ; 

And  my  head  won't  scheme  like  it  used  to  do. 

Bad  men  ban't  hung  like  they  used  to  be, 

Good  songs  ban't  sung  like  they  used  to  be ; 

The  jolly  and  wise 

Have  all  flown  to  the  skies ; 

And  I  ban't  so  young  as  I  used  to  be. 


i8 


SCANDAL 

The  owl  alighted  in  a  yew 
Beside  the  portals  of  my  house ; 
The  hour  was  nearly  half-past  two 
And,  as  he  ate  his  juicy  mouse, 
A  cuckoo  clock  made  cheerful  chime 
Within  and  shouted  out  the  time. 

"  O  gracious  God  !  "  the  owl  began, 
And  rolled  his  round  eyes  at  the  moon, 
"  What  a  black  piece  of  work  is  man — 
Well  might  we  miss  cuckoo  in  June, 
How  mad,  misguided,  inhumane 
To  keep  a  cuckoo  on  a  chain  ! 

"  But  all  the  feathered  folk  must  know  ; 
This  infamy  I'll  bring  to  light 
And  tell  the  horror  high  and  low 
And  scream  the  crime  by  day  and  night. 
No  bird  shall  sing  to  him  again 
Who  keeps  a  cuckoo  on  a  chain." 

Good  neighbour,  of  your  charity 
Consider  that  mistaken  fowl ; 
Beware  you  tell  not  truth  awry 
And,  hooting  with  your  brother  owl. 
Into  the  public  ear  complain 
I  keep  a  cuckoo  on  a  chain. 


19 


WELCOME 

The  hard  azure  on  high 
That  bends  over  the  Spring 
Falls  a  tinkling,  a  thrill — 
Sudden,  silvery,  shrill; 
For  the  lark's  in  the  sky 
And  his  lyre-shapen  wing 
Lifts  the  song  in  a  spiral  at  will. 

In  the  East  is  the  wind; 
At  the  fringe  of  the  wood 
Shiver  catkins  of  gold 
Or  the  fleece  and  the  fold- 
Sure  the  eaning  ewes  find 
That  the  sunlight  is  good, 
Though  chill  Eurus,  his  scythe's  on  the  wold. 

Dawns  a  sweet  lemon  light 
Through  the  red-bosomed  earth ; 
Leaps  and  sparkles  a  train 
Along  dingle  and  lane  ; 
For  the  primrosen  bright, 
They  are  come  to  their  birth 
And  the  daffodil's  dancing  again. 


THE   NEOLITH 

Sole  standing  in  utter  loneliness — superbly  alone — 

A  monolith  ruggedly  lifts,  with  the  roseal  ling  at  hi?  ^eet. 

Only  the  murmur  of  bees  and  the  twinkle  and  throb  of  the 

heat 
On  the  league-long  height,  and  the  shade  from  his  granite 

thrown. 

Roll  upon  roll  of  the  Moor  flung  out  on  a  sky-line  free ; 
Clouds  at  the  zenith  blue ;  in  the  flower-clad  earth  beneath 
The  dust  of  a  neolith  :  one  who  has  swept  this  heath 
As  the  chieftain  of  vanished  hordes  and  their  fate  and  their 
destiny. 

When  he  died,  that  no  mocking  phantom,  or  jealous  shade 
Of  him  mighty,  should  darken  their  lodge  in  the  distant 

glen. 
They  brought  their  lord  hither,  on  shoulders  of  mourning 

men, 
And  tore  at  their  hair  and  howled  long  and  fierce  music 

made. 

Then  they  sought  for  a  stone  of  girth  that  should  evermore 

mark  his  place 
And  be  seen  for  remembrance,  afar  on  the  frowning  hill. 
Of  that  leader  of  men,  whose  right  arm  and  resistless  will 
Had  lifted  his  clan  to  power  and  to  splendour  and  pride  of 

face. 

He  was  cooped  with  his  knees  to  his  chin  in  a  granite  kist. 
And  a  granite  flake  over  his  head  that  should  last  till  doom. 


22  THE  NEOLITH 

So  near  doth  he  seem  that  one  feels  him  not  dead  in  his 

tomb, 
But  crouching,  alive  and  alert,  with  a  warrior's  axe  in  his 

fist. 

Does  he  hear  the  old  gods  of  the  thunder?  Can  summer 

sun 
Reach  down  to  his  pit  ?    May  his  dog's  ears  discern  the 

rain 
Hissing  over  the  heather,  or  tell  if  the  purple  stain 
From  a  cloud-shadow   dims   his   grey  stone?    When    the 

ponies  run, 

Can  he  mark  the  dull  drumming  above  of  their  unshod 

feet? 
Does  he  chill  when  the  snowdrift  is  clogged  on  the  frozen 

ground? 
Does  he  thrill  to  the  shout  of  the  stream,  or  the  bay  of  the 

hound. 
Or  heed  the  sad  curlew's  cry  and  the  brown  snipe  bleating 

his  bleat? 

Nay,  for  nothing  lies  under  the  grass  but  the  broken  stones 
Or  mayhap  a  primeval  crock,  or  a  fleck  of  red  rust, 
For  the  hero  is  earth  of  the  earth,  and  its  dust  is  his  dust, 
And  his  flesh  is  the  flesh  of  the  peat,  and  its  bones  are  his 
very  bones. 

That  master  of  men  is  ascended,  for  joy  and  for  bane. 
And  life  after  life  hath  he  lived  and  relinquished  since 

then — 
In  the  heather  and  herbage  and  birds,  in  the  beetles  and 

foxes  and  men, 
Each  in  their  turn  sprung  of  earth ;  each  in  their  turn  earth 

again. 


THE    NEOLITH  28 

Yesterday  clad  with  great  thews,  that  builded  a  chieftain  of 

might; 
To-day   where    the   milkwort    and    fern    and    the    starry 

tormentil 
Spread  joy  by  the  auburn  beck  and  loveliness  on  the  hill ; 
To-morrow  a  moorman's  fire  at  the  fall  of  a  winter's  night. 

And  the  aura,  so  azure  clear,  that  is  running  above  the  red, 

Was  the  glow  of  a  savage  heart  imprisoned  within  the 
brand ; 

And  the  warmth  on  your  hand  was  the  sun  on  a  stone- 
man's  hand 

In  the  far  off  urgent  days  that  were  lived  by  the  ancient 
dead. 

So   mutable  myriads  wake  to  the  ring  of  their  morning 

chime ; 
So  mutable  myriads  pass  at  the  set  of  their  final  sun  ; 
And   only  Matter   remains — the   august,    the  unchanging 

one — 
But  no  shape  and  no  shadow  of  aught  that  she  moulds  on 

the  wheel  of  Time. 

And  ye  who  would  bring  man  his  soul  from  a  mystical 

matrix  apart ; 
And  ye  who  would  lift  up  man's  life   to  a  land  beyond 

Matter's  ken, 
Must  proclaim  how  her  rape  overtook  her,  and  wherefore, 

and  when. 
Ere  we  bend  to  your  idols,  or  take  these  your  fairyland 

stories  to  heart. 


IN    A   WOOD 

There  runs  a  pathway  through  the  wood 
Where  lace  the  boughs  and  all  is  good. 
The  beech-boles  don  a  robe  of  white 
And  gleam  like  ghosts  at  dayspring  light, 
When  first  the  pure,  canorous  note 
Throbs  from  a  waking  blackbird's  throat ; 
And  down  the  long  aisle  dim 
Another  answers  him. 


Often  they  met,  the  girl  and  boy 
At  this  still  hour ;  it  was  her  joy 
To  share  a  kiss  at  peep  of  day 
Before  he  took  his  working  way. 
Then  light  of  heart  the  youngster  went, 
Leaving  the  little  maid  content 
To  seek  her  home  near  by 
The  forest  boundary. 


But  when  at  evening  back  he  came 
Where  the  beech-boles  were  all  aflame 
With  ruddy  fire  along  the  glade, 
She  leapt  from  out  some  stealthy  shade. 
And  dawdling  once  when  sunset  shone, 
He  cut  their  letters,  one  in  one, 
Upon  an  ancient  stem. 
And  drew  a  heart  around  them. 

24 


IN  A  WOOD  25 

Then  rose  the  red,  accursed  star, 
And  honour  swept  her  boy  afar  ; 
While  she,  sore  hindered  and  forlorn. 
Still  heard  the  blackbird  sing  at  morn, 
Still  felt  her  heart  with  each  sun  sink, 
Knowing  he  stood  upon  the  brink, 
Prayed  on  in  hope  and  trust — 
Until  the  boy  was  dust. 

Life  brought  its  anodyne  of  years, 
To  dull  young  griefs  and  dry  young  tears, 
And  Time,  who  knows  not  to  stand  still, 
Sent  a  new  lover  up  the  hill. 
A  wife  and  mother  now  she  goes 
And  plays  with  her  first  baby's  toes — 
The  name  in  memory 
Spoken  without  a  sigh. 

And  grey  upon  the  beech's  rind, 
Foregone,  forgotten,  out  of  mind, 
Two  woven  letters  may  be  told 
When  dawns  are  white  and  eves  are  gold ; 
Where  his  aubade  the  blackbird  makes, 
Or  sleepy,  sweet  good-even  takes  ; 
And  down  the  long  aisle  dim 
Another  answers  him. 


GHOSTIES   AT  THE   WEDDING 

Turn  down  a  glass  afore  his  place ; 

Draw  up  the  dog-eared  chair ; 
For  though  we  shall  not  see  his  face, 

I  think  he  will  be  there 

Our  wedding  day  to  share. 

Turn  up  the  glass  where  she  would  be 
And  put  a  red  rose  there. 

Her  quick,  grey  eyes  we  cannot  see, 
But  weren't  they  everywhere, 
And  shall  not  they  be  here? 

Though  them  old  blids  are  in  the  grave 
And  their  good  light's  gone  out, 

We'd  sooner  their  kind  ghosties  have 
Than  all  the  living  rout 
As  will  be  there  no  doubt. 

For  some  are  dead  as  cannot  die, 

Some  flown  as  cannot  flee. 
You  still  do  fancy  'em  near  by. 

'Tis  so  with  him  and  she. 

At  any  rate  to  we. 


26 


DAWN   WIND 

Wind  of  the  Dawn  am  I,  and  only  She 
Who  knows  the  music  of  my  every  song 
Can  hear  the  whisper  lingering  along 
Melodiously. 

Melodiously  along  the  moonlit  corn, 
With  silver  fingering  all  my  peaceful  way, 
I  nightly  wander  towards  another  day 
Soon  to  be  born. 

Lo  !  from  the  East  he  comes ;  and  I  rejoice 
And  throbbing  on  into  the  ruddy  light 
Leap  hke  a  giant  from  the  dying  night 
With  organ  voice. 

Along  the  rosy,  misty,  magic  lands 
That  gleam  above  each  dewy-scented  lea 
The  children  of  the  morning  welcome  me 
And  clap  their  hands. 


27 


DART 

Elfin  river,  stealing  from  far-off  granite  cradle, 
Musical  the  place  names  upon  thy  tidal  water ; 
Tuckenhay  and  Greenway,  Stoke  Gabriel  and  Dittisham, 
Sharpham  and  Duncannon,  beside  thy  margin's  mirror — 
Sweet  bells  all  a-chiming  for  native  ear  that  knows  them. 
Rainbows  in  November,  above  the  hillside  footed, 
Burn  along  the  brake  fern  to  set  the  auburn  flaming 
In  transparent  wonders  of  emerald  and  purple  ; 
Till  descends  the  hailstorm,   with  lash  and  scourge  ice- 
knotted, 
Hurtling   through    the   coppice;    from    larch   and   cherry 

robbing 
Amber  dust  and  crimson.     Chattering  then  and  hissings 
And  fretting  first  thy  bosom  into  a  sudden  torment. 
He  draws  his  tatters  round  him  and  huddles  off  to  seaward. 
So  the  sun  returning,  by  hover  and  by  ripple. 
Charms    thy   fleeting    turmoil    and    wins    thee    back    to 

laughter. 
At  the  river  ferry  a  little  bell  is  calling ; 
And  where  the  red  earth  arches,  low  on  the  blue  above  it, 
Man  and  horses  ploughing,  herald  a  cloud  behind  them 
Of  the  great,  white  sea-fowl  that  feed  along  the  furrow. 
Cobweb  grey  thine  orchards,  still  the  last  apples  ling'ring. 
Topaz  and  ruby  tangled  upon  the  frosted  lichen ; 
While  broad,  oaken  hangers,  a  rapture  for  the  sunset. 
Meet  the  steadfast  beech  scrub,  like  red-hot  fire  aglowing, 
Till  their  conflagrations,  that  blaze  along  the  tide  way, 
Melt  in  flame  and  mingle  their  wonder  with  thy  crystal. 
Massy,  rounded  elm-trees  roll  out  along  the  river, 

28 


DART  29 

And  above,  in  billows  far  mightier  and  vaster, 
Sail  the  light-laden  clouds,  that  lift  another  forest 
Bossed  and  round  as  they  are  and  carry  up  their  image. 
Crested,  crowned  and  golden,  into  the  hyaline  azure. 
Pale  that  lifted  glory  and  faint  those  sun-touched  summits 
Seen  against  the  ardour  of  thine  own  earth-born  elm-trees. 
Down  beside  the  reed-rond,  pulse  of  the  sea,  a-weary. 
Doth  bring  a  wreath  of  flow'rs  to  mark  the  place  of  parting. 
High  above  them  glitters  the  wide  weir's  silver  apron 
And    the    bright    salmon    leap,    springing    from    salt   to 

sweetness. 
Farewell,  worthy  worship  in  all  thy  times  and  seasons ; 
By  thy  magic  subtle  of  many  a  deep  and  rapid  ; 
By  thy  sunny  reaches  and  mystery  of  shadow; 
Thy  gentle  hillsides  green  and  dear  delight  of  forests ; 
By  the  surprise  of  coombs,  the  hanging  woods  and  dingles  ; 
The  happy  days  and  sad  ;  the  murmur  of  thy  voices ; 
Thy  changing,  winsome  moods  and  little  lovelinesses, 
Thou  art  all  Devon,  and  so  incomparably  England. 


BY    RUNDLESTONE 

Her  cottage  solitary  stood 
Beside  the  granite  Rundlestone — 
Lonely  enough,  but  not  so  lone 
That  fortune  missed  it,  ill  and  good. 

And  faring  by  that  way  once  more 
I  sought  to  see  the  friend  of  old. 
And  found  an  orange-lily's  gold 
Still  burning  by  her  cottage  door. 

There  seemed  no  stir  about  the  place ; 
No  voice  responded  to  my  call ; 
I  heard  no  tardy  footsteps  fall, 
Nor  welcomed  her  familiar  face. 

From  open  window  overhead 
There  came  a  dull  and  fitful  flap, 
Where  the  blind  bulged  and  filled  the  gap 
And  billowed  as  the  breezes  sped. 

Empty  the  house,  for  she  had  gone 
Full  many  a  moon  before  that  day, 
Passing  in  steadfast  faith  away 
To  join  her  man  beneath  his  stone. 

And  now,  when  currents  of  the  mind 
Drift  to  my  thought  her  vanished  name, 
I  see  the  orange-lily  flame 
And  hear  the  flapping  of  a  blind. 

30 


A   SONG  TO   SILVER   EYES 

Now  that  the  dayspring  surely  comes 
To  wake  a  dreaming  world  once  more 
And  light  a  thousand,  thousand  homes 
With  message  from  the  Eastern  shore ; 
Though  dawn  doth  shiver  sad  and  grey 
And  sombre  clouds  hide  earth  and  sea, 
My  love  shall  be  the  sun  to  me 
And  glad'  my  going  through  the  day. 

When  mournful  darkness  falls  again 
To  sink  old  earth  in  slumber  deep. 
Save  where  the  sisters,  sorrow,  pain. 
Their  sobbing,  throbbing  vigils  keep  ; 
Though  faint  my  heart  and  dim  my  sight 
Beneath  the  storm's  immensity, 
My  love  shall  be  a  star  to  me 
And  guide  my  going  through  the  night. 


31 


ENOUGH 

The  larch,  the  birch  and  the  eagle  fern 
And  granite  grey ; 

The  cry  of  the  kine  and  the  song  of  the  burn 
Down  Dartmoor  way. 

A  league-long  tramp  to  a  lifted  stone 
Under  the  sky  ; 

Long  lustral  hours  superbly  alone — 
My  soul  and  I. 

For  you  be  the  kingdoms  that  you  list, 
The  seas  you  will ; 

And  mine  a  white  rainbow  in  the  mist 
On  a  heather  hill. 


SONG   OF   THE   LARCHES 

Not  foliage,  but  emerald  fires 

Run  through  our  legions  in  the  spring, 

Until  their  myriad  points  and  spires 

Are  hidden  past  remembering. 

Through  hanging  wood,  by  dell  and  dene 

Again  we  ray  ourselves  in  green. 

Not  foliage,  but  aureate  fires 
Leap  through  our  legions  in  the  fall. 
When  autumn  lights  her  saffron  pyres 
And  the  red  sun  sinks  to  a  ball. 
Like  golden  smoke  across  the  grey 
We  fling  our  worn-out  robes  away. 

32 


A  SONG 

Shadows  we  are  and  shadows  seek 
And  haunt  the  place  where  shadows  move ; 
But  I,  who  know  thy  blessed  love, 
Scorn  shadowland  and  all  things  weak. 

Thou  art  alone  reality  ; 
The  rest  is  dream  within  a  dream. 
My  life  knows  nothing  but  doth  seem 
Save  only  thee,  save  only  thee. 

Through  noon  of  day  and  noon  of  night 
There  steals  a  golden  thought  and  rare, 
That  still  we  breathe  the  self-same  air. 
Still  glory  in  the  same  delight. 

That  soul  to  soul  and  sense  to  sense — 
Our  heavens  woven  into  one — 
We're  shining,  each  the  other's  sun, 
Before  we  vanish  and  go  hence. 

And  if  thy  love  should  faint  and  die, 
The  deep,  eternal  after-glow 
Shall  burn  for  ever  where  I  go — 
A  cloud  of  light  in  my  grey  sky. 


ZZ 


BUONARROTI'S    "DAWN" 

Spirit  of  twilight  chill  and  upper  air 
Stretched  desolate  upon  the  rack  of  morn  ; 
Thou  hooded  grief  from  mountain  marble  torn, 
Gazing  sad-lidded  on  the  sky's  despair, 
While  the  grey  stars,  like  tears,  descend  forlorn ; 
Earth's  broken  heart  and  man's  unsleeping  care 
Wait  on  thy  pillow,  crying  to  be  borne — 
The  only  burden  thou  shalt  ever  bear. 
No  infant  hope  may  dream  on  thy  deep  breast, 
No  little  lip  may  soothe  with  infant  might 
Thy  mouth's  immortal  woe  ;  for  thee,  oppressed. 
Dawn  dim  epiphanies  beyond  all  light, 
Where  man's  long  agony  and  cry  for  rest 
But  torture  dayspring  into  darker  night. 


34 


A    DARTMOOR   STREAM 

When  Shakespeare  wrote,  you  sang  the  song  I  hear, 
And  when  Eliza  reigned,  your  lint-white  locks 
Flashed  where  they  flash  to-day,  among  the  rocks. 

And  showered  their  tresses  twined  into  the   brown   pool 
clear. 


You  danced  and  flung  your  foam  upon  the  fern, 
And  sang  along  your  green  and  granite  ways 
Even  as  now,  in  far-off  Golden  days, 

When  toiled  the  tinner  men  beside  your  heathery  urn. 


Their  ruins  shrink  beside  you  ;  foxglove  springs 
Above  the  roofless  hut  and  smelting  place ; 
No  more  their  shadows  fall  upon  your  face. 

Or  mediaeval  chime  of  pick  and  hammer  rings. 


But  they  were  children  in  your  lap  beside 
The  early  men  of  stone,  whose  lodges  stand, 
Like  mushroom  circles  grey  upon  the  land 

Above  the  cotton-grass  that  marks  your  cradle  wide. 


The  bear  has  lapped  your  crystal  on  his  rounds ; 
The  stricken  elk  beside  you  dropped  at  last — 
A  flint  home  in  his  shoulder,  deep  and  fast — 

To  smear  your  emerald  moss  from  red  of  deathly  wounds. 

35 


36  A  DARTMOOR  STREAM 

And  now,  where  once  the  wolf  pack  hunting  went, 
With  ululation  through  the  snowy  nights. 
Leap  motor  cars  upon  the  highway  heights, 

And  by  their  hooting  horns  the  silent  air  is  rent. 

All  one  to  you :  machine  and  beast  and  man. 

And  Time,  that  leads  them  off  and  brings  them  in 
You  strive  above  all  circumstance,  to  win 

Your  immemorial  dream  and  predetermined  plan. 

Unchanging,  ever-changing,  you  possess 
Your  spirit  quickened  with  an  ardour  still 
Of  workmanship — a  patient,  steadfast  will 

To  rarer  beauty  yet  and  purer  loveliness. 


THE    FALL 

I'll  sing  a  song  of  kings  and  queens 
And  falling  leaves  and  flying  rain, 
With  Time  to  mow,  and  Fate  who  gleans 
Their  good  and  evil,  boon  and  bane. 

I'll  sing  a  song  of  leaves  and  rains 
And  flying  queens  and  falling  kings, 
Yet  doubt  not  reason  still  remains 
Snug  hidden  at  the  core  of  things. 

For  every  year  an  autumn  brings 
To  round  the  root  and  fat  the  sheaves 
And  haply  garner  queens  and  kings 
With  falling  rain  and  flying  leaves. 

The  rain  is  salt  with  tears  of  queens, 
The  leaves  are  red  with  blood  of  kings ; 
Unknowing  what  the  mystery  means, 
We  puzzle  at  these  mighty  things. 

For  why  great  kings  and  rains  should  fall, 
And  wherefore  leaves  and  queens  should  fly, 
Or  such  rare  wonders  be  at  all. 
You  cannot  tell ;  no  more  can  L 

Yet  this  we  know :  new  leaves  and  rain 
Anon  shall  crown  the  vernal  scene. 
But  dust  of  dynasts  not  again 
Blows  up  into  a  king  or  queen. 

37 


LAPWINGS 

When  white  ice  tinkles  on  the  rutted  roads 
And  icicles  are  bearding  from  the  thatch  ; 
When  fens  are  froze,  the  lapwings  make  despatch 
And  all  a-mewing  come  from  their  frost-bound  abodes. 

With  rush  of  wings  upon  the  northern  wind 

Across  the  wintry  blue,  like  sparks  of  gold 

They  flash  into  the  valleys,  hunger-bold, 

And  seek  their  comforting  with  doubtful  human-kind. 

They  love  the  lew,  where  yellow  corn-stacks  stand. 

And  puff  their  feathers  in  the  pallid  sun, 

Go  daintily  about  and  peep  and  run. 

Like  pixy  pilgrim  folk  of  some  far  fairy-land. 

And  near  to  bud-break,  when  young  grey-eyed  Spring, 

Clad  in  the  silver  of  an  April  rain. 

Calls  from  the  hill-tops,  home  they  go  again 

And  lift  their  kitten  cries  to  give  her  welcoming. 


38 


TO  AN  OPAL 

Wrapt  in  the  radiant  air's  own  milky  tress, 

Tliat's  less  than  cloud  and  more  than  cloudlessness, 

Dawn-light  and  moon-light  art  thou  ;  dreaming  fire, 

That  dies  along  the  west :  a  pulse  ;  a  pyre 

Burning  beneath  the  brow  of  some  red  eave  ; 

The  very  staple  that  the  salt  winds  weave 

Into  the  vaporous  east,  or  sobbing  south. 

When  some  grey  hurricane  sucks  at  the  mouth 

Of  the  dear,  wild-haired  sea,  and  with  huge  mirth 

Rains  back  his  rape  of  kisses  on  the  earth. 

The  blooms  of  old-world  fiow'rs  in  ancient  garths ; 

The  dancing  aureole  of  winter  hearths  ; 

The  argent  flame  that  haunts  eternal  snows ; 

Spray  of  the  burn  and  petal  of  the  rose ; 

Gleam  of  the  dragon-fly  or  halcyon's  wing; 

The  dew-bedappled  kirtle  of  the  Spring  ; 

The  amber  ripple  of  the  kerning  corn  ; 

Splendour  of  fruit ;  where  ripeness,  like  a  morn. 

Breaks  through  the  bloom  ;  the  rainbow's  liquid  light ; 

The  northern  dancers  of  an  arctic  night ; 

Nacre  of  pearl  and  foam  upon  the  sea — 

All  these,  thou  glimmering  epitome 

Of  the  world's  glory,  throb  and  nestle  here 

Within  the  little  compass  of  a  tear. 


39 


JACK  O'  LANTERN 

Where  the  dim  marrish  oozes  out  and  fills 

The  lap  of  the  hills, 

While  drowsy  gloom  broods  deep  upon  the  wold, 

They  keep  their  place  and  take  their  trembling  flight 

And  fringe  the  night 

With  pallid  flowers  of  azure  and  faint  gold. 

Along  the  darkness  elfin  lanterns  flicker, 

Now  slow,  now  quicker — 

A  pale  corona  set  upon  the  mire. 

They  float  and  fly  and  leap  and  sink  together 

Upon  one  tether, 

Where  ancient  fens  excern  their  lambent  fire. 

Thin,  shaking,  blue — spectres  of  flame — they  travel 

And  break  and  ravel, 

Then  fade  and  flash  again  and  fade  again. 

They  wave  their  lamps  upon  the  quag;  they  quiver 

And  soar  and  shiver 

And  flit,  like  little  ghosts,  above  the  plain. 

Born  from  the  heavy  breath  of  sleeping  Earth, 

In  feeble  mirth 

They  trail  and  slink  and  linger,  rise  and  fall; 

Then,  shuddering  before  the  chill  of  day, 

Soon  speed  away. 

Blow  out  their  lights  and  vanish,  one  and  all. 


40 


THE  OLD  ROAD 

How  short  the  road  with  you,  my  friend, 

How  short  the  road  with  you — 

The  hills  and  vales,  the  heights  and  dales 

And  each  unfolding  view  ; 

For  side  by  side  and  foot  by  foot, 

Though  long  that  summer  noon. 

The  twilight  fell  too  soon,  my  friend, 

The  twilight  fell  too  soon. 

How  far  the  road  alone,  my  friend, 

How  far  the  road  alone ; 

The  hills  how  steep,  the  dales  how  deep, 

Their  ancient  magic  flown  ; 

For  now  the  way,  together  trod, 

You  cannot  tread  again, 

Is  twenty  miles  of  pain,  my  friend. 

Is  twenty  miles  of  pain. 

Still  winds  the  patient  road,  my  friend  ; 

Still  winds  the  patient  road. 

Whereon  I  go,  now  high,  now  low. 

With  my  appointed  load  ; 

And  glories  shared  I  felt  were  gone 

For  ever  when  you  past, 

Have  brought  you  back  at  last,  my  friend, 

Have  brought  you  back  at  last. 


41 


THE  DOUBTFUL  ONES 

They  lie  about,  the  naughty  folk,  a-mingling  with  the  rest, 
And  just  so  green  the  grave-grass  on  their  mounds  as  on 

the  best ; 
For  Nature's  poor  at  morals,   and  to  her  they're  all  the 

same. 
With  their  virtues  no  great  matter  and  their  vices  no  great 

shame. 
Tom  White  bides  there  :  they  say  he  slew  his  first  to  wed 

another. 
And  that's  the  hill  that  hides  Jack  Ford,  as  robbed  his  own 

grandmother. 
This  lump  of  earth,  where  dandelions  be  keeping  such  a 

state, 
Is  Katherine  Jay's,  the  baby's  friend,  once  known  as  "cruel 

Kate." 
They  dug  up  thirteen  childer  in  her  garden,  so  'tis  said ; 
And  when  they  ran  the  creature  down,  she'd  cut  her  evil 

thread. 
Near  by  we  teeled  Bart  Coombstock — one  as  took  his  own 

life  too  : 
He  hanged  hisself  at  seventy-three,  though  why  for  no  man 

knew. 
And  Martin  Cobley,  in  a  pit  beside  they  godly  Foxes, 
Did  six  months  of  his  middle  time  for  breaking  the  alms 

boxes. 
Where  yonder  row  of  Caunters  lie — a  famed  and  far-spread 

clan — 
Have  crept  their  black   sheep,   Rupert,   him   once  called 

"the  gentleman." 

42 


THE  DOUBTFUL  ONES  48 

A  reckless  love-hunter  was  he,  and  made  an  end  of  life 
When  Noah  Bassett  shot  him  dead    for  playing  with  his 

wife. 
Poor  Nelly  Dingle,  buried  by  the  lich-gate  on  the  left, 
Burned  six  good  stacks  of  wheat  the  night  they  flung  her 

out  for  theft ; 
And  they  small  hillocks,  down-along,  of  babies   side   by 

side, 
Be  "chrisomers,"  as  never  got  baptised  afore  they  died, 
There  do  they  rest — the  doubtful  ones — and  sleep  so  sweet 

and  sound 
As  any  proper  saint  of  God  that  ever  went  to  ground ; 
But  when  the  graves  be  opened  and  they  birds  begin  to 

sing- 
Lord  !     Won't  it  be  a  funny  dish  to  set  before  the  King ! 


LITANY  TO  PAN 

By  the  abortions  of  the  teeming  Spring, 
By  Summer's  starved  and  withered  offering, 
By  Autumn's  stricken  hope  and  Winter's  sting, 
Oh,  hear ! 

By  the  ichneumon  on  the  writhing  worm. 
By  the  swift,  far-fiung  poison  of  the  germ, 
By  soft  and  foul  brought  out  of  hard  and  firm, 
Oh,  hear  ! 

By  the  fierce  battle  under  every  blade. 

By  the  etiolation  of  the  shade. 

By  drought  and  thirst  and  things  undone  half  made, 

Oh,  hear ! 

By  all  the  horrors  of  re-quickened  dust. 
By  the  eternal  waste  of  baffled  lust, 
By  mildews  and  by  cankers  and  by  rust, 
Oh,  hear ! 

By  the  fierce  scythe  of  Spring  upon  the  wold. 
By  the  dead  eaning  mother  in  the  fold, 
By  stillborn,  stricken  young  and  tortured  old. 
Oh,  hear ! 

By  fading  eyes  pecked  from  a  dying  head. 
By  the  hot  mouthful  of  a  thing  not  dead. 
By  all  thy  bleeding,  struggling,  shrieking  red, 
Oh,  hear ' 

44 


LITANY  TO  PAN  45 

By  all  the  agonies  of  all  the  past, 
By  earth's  cold  dust  and  ashes  at  the  last, 
By  her  return  to  the  unconscious  vast. 
Oh,  hear ! 


A  SONG 

How  I  have  lived  while  others  slept, 
With  the  white  moon  and  thee  ! 
Heaven-high  my  adoration  leapt 
Sea-deep  my  ecstasy. 

And  now  one  memory  I  keep 
Till  life  and  I  shall  part : 
She  loved  me  well  enough  to  sleep 
In  peace  upon  my  heart. 


CHERRYBROOK 

Far  more  than  others  feel  or  see ; 

Far  more  than  others  hear  or  know, 
Awakes  and  lives  and  throbs  for  me 

When  by  the  Cherrybrook  I  go. 

For  others,  Believer's  green  side 
And  yellow  furzes  burning  bright ; 

Grouse  heather,  foaming  like  a  tide. 

And  stones  that  dance,  or  drowse  in  light. 

For  others,  just  a  singing  stream 
Of  flashing  stickles,  cherry  red, 

That  mirrors  in  her  breast  the  beam, 
Like  golden  beads  upon  a  thread. 

For  me,  a  river  of  regret 

In  every  reach  so  still  and  clear — 
A  streamlet,  where  I  follow  yet 

The  Shadow  of  a  brother  dear. 

I  see  his  trout-rod  catch  the  sun ; 

I  hear  the  music  of  his  reel  ; 
Knowing  his  kindly  days  are  done. 

His  good  life  gone  beyond  appeal. 

Now  other  rods  are  twinkling  high  ; 

But  the  grey  shape  I  used  to  bless. 
Lacking,  the  stream  runs  lonely  by 

And  Cherrybrook's  an  emptiness. 

46 


THE   HUNTER'S   MOON 

October  day  drifts  into  night  and  now, 
Globing  red  gold  upon  a  naked  bough, 
The  Hunter's  Moon  climbs  through  a  ragged  larch, 
Swings  out  on  Heaven  and  sweeps  her  steadfast  arch 
Through  cloudrack  dim ;  while  underneath  there  lie 
The  darkling  forests  and  the  floods,  and  fiy 
Leaves  from  the  summer  woods.     They  tinkle  down 
Russet  and  sere,  etiolate  and  brown. 
Blood-red  and  scarlet,  auburn,  silver,  grey — 
Good  millions,  bearing  wherewithal  to  pay 
Debt  of  the  trees.     The  busy  earthworms  cold 
Draw  in  the  yearly  dues  to  rich  the  mould, 
Storing  what  tree-tops  earned ;  and  thus  full  round 
The  cycle  spins ;  for  sure  the  sodden  ground 
Is  but  a  bank,  that  hoards  to  give  again^ 
Wherein  the  beetle  and  the  mole  and  rain 
Balance  their  books  beneath  the  Hunter's  Moon, 
While  Nature  budgets  for  another  June. 


47 


VOICES 

I 

Harken,  harken,  neighbour,  harken  ! 
There  be  little  childer  jangling, 
There  be  childer  up-long  wrangling 
By  the  thorn-tree  in  the  wood. 
Nay,  them  noises  you  are  hearing, 
Out  of  yonder  blue-bell  clearing, 
Are  the  wild  cat's  kitlings  playing, 
While  their  mother's  hunting  food. 


Harken,  harken,  neighbour,  harken  ! 
There's  the  pixy  bells  a-ringing, 
And  the  dinky  pixies  singing 
Through  the  curtain  of  the  rain. 
Nay,  'tis  but  a  flock  of  plover — 
Golden  plover  now  come  over, 
From  the  places  of  their  summer, 
To  their  winter  home  again. 

Ill 
Harken,  harken,  neighbour,  harken  ! 
There's  some  poor,  unhappy  devil 
Homing  drunk  after  a  revel, 
Drowned  in  snow  and  lost  in  night. 
Nay,  that  creepy,  crawly  yowling 
Be  red  fox  up  over  howling, 
Pads  acold  and  belly  empty, 
Hunger-starven  for  a  bite. 


48 


VOICES  49 


Harken,  harken,  neighbour,  harken ! 
To  the  sound  of  woman's  wailing — 
A  sad  woman,  quailing,  railing, 
Like  the  sob  of  wind-swept  leaves. 
Nay,  that  ban't  no  cry  of  woman, 
Nor  the  moan  of  any  human  : 
'Tis  the  murmur  of  the  hill-tops 
And  "  the  calling  of  the  cleaves." 


WIND   OF   THE  WEST 

I  BEAR  the  banner  of  the  sun  at  noon  ; 
I  Hght  the  miUion  jewelled  lamps  of  June; 
I  weave,  from  sky  and  purple  sea  below, 
The  rosy  cradle  where  a  baby  moon 
Rocks  in  the  after-glow. 

Awake  ye  bells,  shine  out  ye  stars  of  Spring ; 
And  let  the  music  of  the  wild  wood  ring ; 
Deck  my  dear  harp  anew  with  golden  green — 
My  ancient  forest  harp,  whereon  I  sing 
Of  all  this  budding  scene. 

A  song  of  rainbows  gleaming  on  the  rain  ; 
Of  sap  and  scent  and  sunlight  come  again ; 
Of  the  young  laughing  year's  unmeasured  mirth  ; 
Of  quickened  Nature's  mother-pang,  whose  pain 
Forewent  this  vernal  birth. 


50 


THE    LOVER   AND   THE   WIND 

"Wind  of  the  South  with  the  wild,  wet  mouth, 

Cease  from  thy  waiHng  and  fury  of  raiUng  ; 

Whisper  to  me  in  my  vigils  of  pain 

That  soon  I  shall  meet  her, 

And  soon  I  shall  greet  her, 

And  thrill  with  the  passion  of  kisses  again. 

"  Wind  of  the  South  with  the  wild,  wet  mouth. 

Silence  thy  raving  and  hark  to  my  craving ; 

Echo  a  hope  through  my  vigils  of  pain. 

I  hunger  to  hold  her, 

I  throb  to  enfold  her 

And  melt  in  the  fire  of  her  body  again." 

"  Suffering  man,  since  thy  race  began 

I  have  been  weeping  and  I  have  been  keeping 

A  myriad  vigils  of  sorrow  and  pain. 

No  more  shalt  thou  meet  her. 

No  more  shalt  thou  greet  her, 

Or  thrill  with  the  passion  of  kisses  again. 

"  Suffering  man,  the  arc  of  thy  span 

To-morrow  is  bounded  and  finished  and  rounded. 

Thou  shalt  forget  all  thy  vigils  of  pain, 

Nor  hunger  to  hold  her, 

Nor  throb  to  enfold  her, 

Nor  cry  for  the  fire  of  her  body  again." 


51 


A   SONG 

The  red's  in  the  heather,  the  gold's  on  the  fern — 
Heigho !   Heigho  ! 

A  nip  to  the  wind  and  the  year  at  the  turn — 
Heigho,  Johnny ! 

The  aglet  and  rowan,  shine  bright  on  the  bough — 
Heigho !  Heigho ! 

But  seedtime,  or  harvest  be  one  to  him  now— 
Heigho,  Johnny ! 

All  one  the  wild  weather,  the  wind  and  the  rain — 
Heigho !  Heigho ! 

For  she  that  made  summer  will  not  come  again — 
Heigho,  Johnny  ! 

Was  left  in  the  lurch  at  a  young  woman's  whim — 
Heigho  !  Heigho ! 

Who  cared  not  a  cuss  for  the  ruin  of  him — 
Heigho,  Johnny ! 

Oh,  little  we  mind  what  the  seasons  may  bring — 
Heigho  !  Heigho  ! 

When  hearts  are  a  winter  without  any  spring — 
Heigho,  Johnny  ! 


52 


THE   GRAVE   OF    KEATS 

I 
Where  silver  swathes  of  newly  fallen  hay 
Fling  up  their  incense  to  the  Roman  sun ; 
Where  violets  spread  their  dusky  leaves  and  run 
In  a  dim  ripple,  and  a  glittering  bay 
Lifts  overhead  his  living  wreath ;  where  day 
Burns  fierce  upon  his  endless  night  and  none 
Can  whisper  to  him  of  the  thing  he  won, 
Love-starved  young  Keats  hath  cast  his  gift  of  clay. 
And  still  the  little  marble  makes  a  moan 
Under  the  scented  shade  ;  one  nightingale 
With  many  a  meek  and  mourning  monotone 
Throbs  of  his  sorrow ;  sings  how  oft  men  fail 
And  leave  their  dearest  light-bringers  alone 
To  shine  unseen,  and  all  unfriended  pale. 


II 

Oh,  leave  the  lyre  upon  his  humble  stone, 
The  rest  erase ;  if  Keats  were  come  again, 
The  quickest  he  to  blot  this  cry  of  pain, 
The  first  to  take  a  sorrowing  world's  atone. 
'Tis  not  the  high  magistral  way  to  moan 
When  a  mean  present  leaps  and  sweeps  amain 
Athwart  the  prophets'  vision  ;  not  one  groan 
Escapes  their  souls,  and  lingers  not  one  strain. 
They  answer  to  their  ideals ;  their  good 
Outshines  all  tlare  and  glare  of  futile  marts. 

53 


54  THE   GRAVE   OF    KEATS 

They  stand  beside  their  altars  while  the  flood 
Ephemeral  rolls  on  and  roars  and  parts. 
It  shall  not  chill  a  poet's  golden  blood  ; 
It  cannot  drown  the  masters'  mighty  hearts. 


TIGER 

To  the  harking  of  the  monkeys,  to  the  shrieking  of  the  birds  ; 
To  the  bellow  of  the  bison  and  stampeding  of  the  herds  ; 
At  fiery  edge  of  sunset,  from  the  jungle  to  the  wold, 
Death  stalks  in  shining  ebony  and  oratige-tazv?iy  gold. 

He  slouched  with  loose,  low  shamble  from  the  glade, 

And  as  he  flung  his  feet  along  the  track. 

Machine-like  glided  each  great  shoulder-blade 

Under  his  pelt.     He  stopped  and  scratched  his  back 

Against  a  stump ;  then  sat  a  little  while, 

Curling  his  ring-straked  tail  around  his  paws, 

Yawning  with  a  gigantic,  sleepy  smile 

That  showed  the  ruddy  gulf  between  his  jaws. 

The  fangs  were  white  and  sound,  for  he  was  young — 

A  male  of  four  full  years,  in  all  his  pride, 

Perfect,  lean,  knit  of  rubber  and  steel,  and  strung 

With  sinews  taut ;  content  and  satisfied. 

Since  the  twice  five  great,  crooked  daggers  set 

Deep  in  his  awful  pads  had  never  failed 

To  win  his  belly  all  it  wanted  yet — 

A  tiger  who  unfailingly  prevailed. 

And  no  beast  kinglier  than  himself  he  knew. 

For  he  had  tracked  and  hunted,  caught  and  slain 

All  that  his  fellow-tigers  caught  and  slew, 

Though  horns  might  miss  by  inches  eye  and  brain. 

A  forthright  beast  and  huge,  his  yellow  eyes 

Glowered  steadfast  into  life ;  he  felt  no  ill 

Of  heart  or  conscience,  or  the  pang  that  flies 

Through  higher  mammals,  plagued  with  choice  of  will 

55 


56  TIGER 

And  all  the  handicaps  of  consciousness. 

He  knew  not  right  nor  wrong;  no  evil  thought 

Sullied  his  wits ;  his  task  no  more  or  less 

Than  faithfully  to  do  all  he  was  taught. 

While  the  dread  smeech  and  terror  of  his  breath 

Down  a  hot  wind  at  dusk,  to  fearful  flocks 

Threatened  the  unknown,  unnamed  horror,  death, 

And  sent  them  hurtling  to  the  plains  and  rocks, 

To  him  they  stood  for  life  and  all  it  meant 

Of  being — food  and  sport  and  work  and  play, 

Love  and  prosperity  and  full  content, 

With  strength  to  solve  the  problems  of  each  day. 

His  brain  began  to  brood  and  meditate, 
Thinking  on  action,  while  the  red  sun  set. 
For  he  had  come  from  far  with  a  new  mate 
To  a  new  valley.     She  was  sleeping  yet 
In  the  bamboos  behind  him,  great  with  young. 
Where  prickly  cactus  hemmed  the  lair  and  palm 
Over  their  couch  its  sombre  frondage  hung. 
There  would  she  bide  a  little  safe  from  harm, 
While  he  must  go  afield  and  do  his  part 
And  fetch  a  tender  antelope,  or  goat, 
To  win  her  praise  and  glad  her  weary  heart 
With  a  hot  supper  for  a  hungry  throat. 
He  pondered  now  within  his  broad,  flat  skull. 
Then  stretched  and  with  his  lifted  nose  and  ear 
Winnowed  the  silence  of  the  evening  lull 
To  learn  if  grass-eaters  were  stirring  near; 
When  down  the  wind,  though  not  a  lizard  ran 
And  no  hoof  thudded  on  the  dusty  bent. 
He  smelt  a  something  fragrant  and  began 
To  twitch  his  nostrils  at  the  ravishment. 


TIGER  57 

A  subtle  scent  and  new  !     His  whiskers  pricked  ; 
His  body  huddled  flat  and  seemed  to  shrink ; 
His  great  nape  bristled  up ;  his  jowl  he  licked  : 
Then,  like  a  banded  snake,  began  to  sink 
And  trickle  through  the  spear  grass.     By  a  stone 
He  sudden  lifted,  then  he  set  and  stilled, 
While  footfall  of  some  game,  that  went  alone. 
Came  innocently  pattering,  to  be  killed. 
Couchant,  like  a  set  trap,  with  head  out-thrust, 
The  hunter  crouched,  quivering  his  black  tail-tip, 
Until  it  drew  a  fan  upon  the  dust 
Behind  him.     Then  his  jaws  began  to  drip. 
As  though  a  gargoyle,  where  red  lichens  grew, 
Was  dribbling.     Now  the  thing  that  he  had  heard 
Approached — a  little  creature,  strange  and  new — 
That  went  not  on  four  feet,  nor  yet  a  bird. 
He  strung  himself  to  spring,  while  at  a  trot, 
The  Indian  runner  on  his  lonely  road 
Jogged  forward,  dreaming  of  a  supper-pot. 
Bound  was  he  for  a  village,  where  abode 
One,  passing  fair,  the  runner's  master  meant 
To  wed  ere  long — a  radiant  maid  to  whom. 
By  fleet-foot  messenger,  the  suitor  sent 
Two  poems  of  his  own  writing. 

Then  the  gloom, 
Where  a  first  firefly  winked  her  golden  spark 
Upon  the  deepening  purple,  broke  and  tore — 
The  twilight  stillness  ended  on  a  stark. 
Harsh,  grating,  deep-mouthed,  solitary  roar. 
Hollow  as  death  ;  while  from  his  secret  place 
The  tiger  loosed  the  lightning  of  his  thighs. 
Leapt  on  the  man  and  with  unwitting  grace 
Struck  him  to  instant  nothing.     Levin  flies 


58  TIGER 

Less  merciful.     A  huddled,  crumpled  clout, 

Brown,  oozing  red,  dissolved  beneath  the  mass 

Of  living  teeth  and  brawn.     The  brains  were  out ; 

Head,  a  cracked  egg-shell  leaking  on  the  grass. 

Thus  in  a  heap  to  mother  earth  they  came, 

Both  quick  and  dead ;  and  then  the  great  cat  sought 

His  grim,  familiar,  ghastly  after-game ; 

But  he  had  hit  too  hard  and  spoiled  his  sport. 

He  drew  and  coaxed  with  hooked  and  playful  paws. 

Hoping  to  find  the  life  had  not  quite  gone, 

And  moved  by  those  infernal,  feline  laws, 

That  made  him  frolic  when  his  work  was  done. 

For  oft  his  perishing  food  would  feebly  strive, 

Driven  by  life's  undying  hope,  and  led 

To  struggle  still  from  death  while  yet  alive ; 

But  his  first  man  the  tiger  found  was  dead. 

And  when  the  conqueror  tasted,  his  rough  tongue 

Thrilled  a  new,  joyous  lust  into  his  brain. 

For  the  soft,  furless  stuff  his  palate  stung 

With  mad,  delicious  twang — oft,  oft  again 

Would  he  smell  up  the  wind  for  such  another. 

He  hoped  the  dainty  creatures  went  in  packs, 

And  that  his  prey  had  kids  and  many  a  brother 

To  steal  at  cool  of  evening  on  his  tracks. 

He  gaped  and  gripped  the  mangled  clod  of  earth 

Under  its  ribs,  heaved  up  a  muzzle  white, 

Sounded  a  grunt,  that  seemed  akin  to  mirth, 

And  bore  his  dripping  coolie  out  of  sight. 

So  to  his  mate,  and  as  the  cross-cut  saws 

Bite  upon  teak  with  backward,  forward  hiss, 

He  purred,  then  dropped  the  banquet  from  his  jaws 

And  woke  the  tigress  with  a  bloody  kiss. 


TIGER  59 

Eyes  shut,  heads  sideway,  cheek  by  cheek  they  ate, 

To  sound  of  squash  and  gulch  and  cracking  bone, 

Deciding  swiftly,  as  they  fed,  the  fate 

Of  the  two  love  songs.     They  were  deftly  sewn 

Within  the  compass  of  a  gold-cloth  bag. 

Tied  with  a  silken  cord,  stamped  with  a  seal. 

The  tiger  crunched  and  gulped  the  sodden  rag 

With  all  the  other  mysteries  of  his  meal. 

For,  while  a  poem  himself,  he  was  no  poet, 

Being  devoid  of  vision,  wit,  or  ruth  ; 

But  many  who  live  poetry,  never  know  it 

And  would  be  much  surprised  to  learn  the  truth. 

Sated  at  last,  they  sauntered  forth  to  find 

A  water-hole ;  but  as  they  washed  their  jowls 

And  cleaned  their  whiskers,  sudden  on  the  wind 

Broke  din  of  brass  and  drums  and  human  howls. 

For  there  had  gone  another  runner  by, 

And  smelt  the  blood  and  seen  the  reeking  trail. 

And  flown,  and  shouted  "  Bagh  ! "  and  raised  the  cry 

That  tiger  were  again  upon  the  vale. 

From  jungle  edge  they  peered  and  torches  red 

Turned  each  bewildered  eye  into  a  gem 

Of  glinting  emerald — then  sudden  dread 

Awoke  at  flash  of  fire,  unknown  to  them. 

Fear  touched  their  primitive  hearts  ;  they  ran  and  roared, 

Awakening  old  echoes  down  the  glade ; 

Shoulder  to  shoulder  from  the  gleam  abhorred 

They  padded,  wondering  to  be  afraid. 

Until  no  blink  of  the  accursed  thing 

Tortured  the  night,  they  galloped,  sweating  hot, 

Then,  all  unknowing  what  the  day  would  bring, 

They  stopped  and  sulked  and  snarled ;  and  so  forgot. 


60  TIGER 

Anon  they  sleep,  nor  guess  the  dawn  shall  see, 

Of  hunters  white  and  beaters  brown,  some  score 

Surround  them  in  a  circle  steadfastly, 

To  set  the  cosmos  on  its  feet  once  more. 

They  sleep,  nor  dream  the  pangs  of  "dum-dum"  lead 

That  wait  on  sunrise,  when  they  two  shall  feel 

All  they  have  measured  to  uncounted  dead. 

And  suffer  sentences  without  appeal. 

Upon  their  mighty  necks  will  dance  the  feet 

Of  the  unpelted  things  that  lay  them  low  ; 

For  of  the  fruit  forbidden  did  they  eat 

And  both  must  go  where  the  bad  tigers  go. 

To  the  trumpeting  of  elephants  and  blaze  of  morning  light, 

To  the  nosing  rifle  barrels,  to  the  stinking  of  cordite, 

With  a  crash  and  sjnash  afid  struggle  and  a  yell  their  tale  is 

told; 
Death  blots  the  shining  ebony  and  orange-tatvny  gold. 


THE   PUDDLE 

I  CURSED  the  puddle  when  I  found 

Unseeing  I  had  walked  therein, 

Forgetting  the  uneven  ground, 

Because  my  eyes 

Were  on  the  skies, 

To  glean  their  glory  and  to  win 

The  sunset's  trembling  ecstasies. 

And  then  I  marked  the  puddle's  face, 

When  still  and  quiet  grown  again, 

Was  but  concerned,  as  I,  to  trace 

The  wonder  spread 

Above  its  head, 

And  mark  and  mirror  and  contain 

The  gold  and  purple,  rose  and  red. 


6i 


VISION 

There  have  been  seers  of  olden  time  who  said, 
When  dreaming  men  are  rapt  into  the  state 
Where  only  shadow  people  congregate, 
That  never  may  they  see  the  faces  of  their  dead. 

But  I  have  seen  the  faces  I  have  lost, 
And  none  so  clear  and  none  so  shadowless 
In  all  that  moonshine  dance  and  frolic  stress 
Of  dream  futility,  as  some  I  loved  the  most. 

Not  as  I  knew  him  last  my  brother  stood, 
A  man  upon  whose  kindly  face  a  stain 
Lay  in  the  letters  of  life's  care  and  pain  ; 
But  as  a  little  lad,  when  all  the  world  was  good. 

High  in  the  darkness  of  a  pine,  elate 
About  our  long-forgotten  forest  play, 
I  hung,  where  he  had  found  a  squirrel's  dray  : 
For  I  was  twelve  again,  and  he  was  only  eight. 

I  saw  his  boyhood's  look,  as  bright  and  fair 

As  ever  shone  from  huddle  of  a  dream  ; 

Reality's  own  self  shall  never  seem 

More  real  than  his  young  laugh  and  flaxen,  Saxon  hair. 

And  waking  old,  I  blessed  the  memory 
Of  my  child-brother's  unforgotten  face, 
Thanking,  as  it  had  been  a  deed  of  grace, 
The  tenderness  of  dreams  that  brought  him  back  to  me. 

62 


IN  GALLIPOLI 

There  is  a  fold  of  lion-coloured  earth, 
With  stony  feet  in  the  ^gean  blue, 
Whereon  of  old  dwelt  loneUness  and  dearth 
Sun-scorched  and  desolate ;  and  when  there  fiew 
The  winds  of  winter  in  those  dreary  aisles 
Of  crag  and  cliff,  a  whirling  snow-wreath  bound 
The  foreheads  of  the  mountains,  and  their  miles 
Of  frowning  precipice  and  scarp  were  wound 
With  stilly  white,  that  peered  through  brooding  mist  pro- 
found. 

But  now  the  myrtle  and  the  rosemary. 
The  mastic  and  the  rue,  the  scented  thyme 
With  fragrant  fingers  gladdening  the  grey. 
Shall  kindle  on  a  desert  grown  subUme. 
Henceforth  that  haggard  land  doth  guard  and  hold 
The  treasure  of  a  sovereign  nation's  womb — 
Her  fame,  her  worth,  her  pride,  her  purest  gold. 
Oh,  call  ye  not  the  sleeping  place  a  tomb 
That  lifts  to  heaven's  light  such  everlasting  bloom. 

They  stretch,  now  high,  now  low,  the  little  scars 

Upon  the  rugged  pelt  of  herb  and  stone  ; 

Above  them  sparkle  bells  and  buds  and  stars 

Young  Spring  hath  from  her  emerald  kirtle  thrown. 

Asphodel,  crocus  and  anemone 

With  silver,  azure,  crimson  once  again 

Ray  all  that  earth,  and  from  the  murmuring  sea 

Come  winds  to  flash  the  leaves  on  shore  and  plain 

Where  evermore  our  dead — our  radiant  dead  shall  reign. 

63 


64  IN  GALLIPOLI 

Imperishable  as  the  mountain  height 

That  marks  their  place  afar,  their  numbers  shine, 

Who  with  the  first-fruits  of  a  joyful  might 

To  human  liberty  another  shrine 

Here  sanctified  ;  nor  vainly  have  they  sped 

That  made  this  desert  dearer  far  than  home, 

And  left  one  sanctuary  more  to  tread 

For  England,  whose  memorial  pathways  roam 

Beside  her  hero  sons,  beneath  the  field  and  foam. 


THEN    AND    NOW 

When  I  was  young  and  leapt  into  the  Spring — 

An  eager,  quick-eyed,  all-inquiring  thing — 

I  hunted  wood  and  valley,  sea  and  shore 

Yet  knew  not  how  to  feel  the  wonders  that  I  saw. 

Now  am  I  old  and  creep  into  the  Spring — 
A  grey-haired,  dim-eyed,  still  inquiring  thing. 
By  ancient  ways,  a  shadow,  still  I  steal. 
Yet  know  not  how  to  see  the  wonders  that  1  feel. 

Come  Youth  again,  while  to  another  Spring 

My  memories  the  old  adventure  bring. 

Wonder  and  wander  yet  once  more  with  me. 

I'll  teach  you  how  to  feel,  and  you  my  eyes  shall  be. 


65 


VIGIL 

There  is  a  glen  beneath  a  lonely  hill, 

Where  the  deep  tangles  of  the  red  brake  fern 

Huddle  to  death  and  beautifully  burn, 

While  maiden  birches  flame  along  the  sunset  still. 

Like  morning  lamps  they  fade  ;  their  gold  expires 
Among  the  silvery  shadows  of  each  stem. 
Delicious  light  gently  departs  from  them 
Where  winter  bloweth  out  the  autumn's  final  fires. 

Furzes,  all  agate-budded  for  the  spring, 

Hedge  round  about  the  coomb  and,  higher  still, 

A  mist  of  naked  branches  hides  the  hill. 

And  pines  bring  warmth  and  scent  and  dusky  sheltering. 

How  oft  have  I  within  this  vernal  wood 

Watched  the  green  mantle  and  the  sweet  sap  mount. 

Trees  are  mine  own  familiars  ;  them  I  count 

Among  the  changeless  hearts  that  make  my  chiefest  good. 

How  often,  when  the  first  of  blossoms  come. 

Do  I  behold  the  opening  of  their  eyes. 

Mine  is  the  worship  ;  theirs  the  shy  surprise 

That  I  so  well  should  know  each  punctual  haunt  and  home. 

Here  have  I  watched  full  many  a  night  from  far 
Like  lover  shadowy,  ere  set  of  sun, 
Dark-eyed  steal  hither,  and  when  day  was  done. 
Mist  meet  the  gentle  moon  ;  dew,  the  eternal  star. 

66 


VIGIL  67 

Once  more  the  stroke  of  every  madcap  wind 
Doth  shake  the  bough  and  dash  the  ripe  fruit  down, 
Or  shower  red  leaves  and  berries  for  a  crown, 
October's  stormy  hair  to  glorify  and  bind. 

Again  I  see ;  again  I  sigh  to  see 
The  fading,  flaming  year  sink  to  her  end, 
Another  summer — sure  another  friend — 
Decline  and  die  and  pass  with  music  solemnly. 

Farewell,  ye  happy,  rainbow-winged  hours ; 

The  autumn's  dew  and  bitter,  silver  breath 

Shall  freeze  your  rosy  feet,  and  strike  to  death 

Your  spirits  where  ye  drowse  amid  the  withered  flowers. 

Farewell  ye  domes  and  canopies  of  June 
Raining  upon  the  earth  in  red  and  gold; 
Hiding  the  sodden  bosom  of  the  wold  ; 
Flying  like  little  ghosts,  beneath  the  hunter's  moon. 

Beside  the  passing  year  my  watch  I  keep 

And  mark  the  sad-eyed  gloamings  steal  away, 

And  feel  the  low  and  lemon  light  of  day 

Fade,  like  an  aching  care,  upon  the  fringe  of  sleep. 


DARTMOOR   NIGHT 

Now  twilight  spreads  her  cool  and  amber  plume, 
Descending  on  the  solitudes  until 
All  detail  dies  :  the  valley  and  the  hill 
Together  darkling  roll  and  merge  into  the  gloom. 

Faints  the  far  emerald  west  and  day  is  done ; 

White  Venus,  throbbing  on  the  dusky  gold. 

Swings  out  her  lamp  above  the  weald  and  wold. 

While  little,  earth-born  flames  make  answer  one  by  one. 

A  child  upon  her  mighty  mother's  breast, 

Earth  cuddles  in  the  bosom  of  old  Night, 

Who,  gathering  coomb  and  woodland,  heath  and  height, 

Opens  her  dewy  wings  to  hide  their  dreamless  rest. 

The  mists  are  trailing  grey  by  watersmeet, 

Night-hidden  in  the  forest  far  below. 

And  where  their  pearly-paven  vapours  flow. 

The  Huntress  upward  steals  to  find  her  starry  seat. 

Her  waxing  splendours  over  moss  and  mire 
Flood  fen  and  barrow,  reeve  and  pool  and  burn, 
The  lone,  high  tors,  the  tracks  that  wind  and  turn 
Where  the  quartz  crystal  shines  with  dim  and  tremulous 
fire. 

She  marks  the  stone-man's  lodges  empty  lie ; 
The  broken  folds,  the  tinner's  delving  place  ; 
She  lights  the  cairn,  the  cross,  the  faltering  trace 
Of  bygone  dead  who  homed  in  this  immensity. 

68 


DARTMOOR  NIGHT  69 

From  cottage  window  fades  the  ruby  gem 

And  glimmer  moonbeams  only;  while  the  moon, 

Mounting  to  heaven  upon  her  silver  shoon, 

A  sovereign  sceptre  holds  and  wears  the  diadem. 

O  Queen  of  sleep  and  silence,  thou  shalt  reign, 
With  lustral  glory  poured  to  soothe  and  bless 
The  least  small  life  in  all  the  wilderness. 
Till  morning  stars  awake  and  sing  the  dawn  again. 


THE   FRUIT   OF   THE   TREE 

The  seraphim,  beneath  their  burning  blades, 

Moved  in  a  wave  of  light ;  while  overhead 

Gleamed  the  pale  moon,  a  ghost  behind  the  tongues 

Of  all  those  flaming  swords  ;  and  rearward  crept 

The  brutes  of  Paradise — the  tiger,  ounce, 

The  leopard  and  the  minions  of  the  night. 

Stealthy  they  stalked,  with  growls  that  showed  the  fang, 

While  in  a  broken  thread  of  fiery  beads, 

Golden  and  green  and  ruby,  through  the  dark. 

Fierce  glowed  their  eyes  behind  that  angel  host. 

And  now  they  roared  for  mingled  grief  and  fear, 

Because,  before  the  moving  seraphim, 

Flung  out  for  ever  from  the  dingles  deep 

And  all  those  pleasant  places  of  sweet  shade 

Beside  the  rivers  and  beneath  the  trees. 

Two,  whom  the  great  cats  loved,  were  driven  forth. 

Bewildered  and  disgraced,  the  primal  pair, 

Now  glimmering  with  moonlight  on  their  heads 

And  streaks  of  flickered  gold  that  splashed  along 

Their  thighs  and  backs,  reflected  from  the  swords, 

Together  went.     Hand  clasped  in  hand  they  moved 

Before  the  marching  angels,  till  at  last 

The  confines  of  the  only  home  they  knew 

Were  reached  and  the  soft  herbage  made  an  end. 

Over  their  heads  the  tracery  of  trees 

Ceased,  and  the  naked  moon  among  her  stars 

Hung  in  the  nightly  sky  and  threw  a  light, 

Cold  as  grey  ashes,  on  the  earth  beneath. 

Starkly  the  desert  struck  upon  their  toes 

70 


THE  FRUIT  OF  TIIE  TREE  71 

With  harsh  and  flinty  welcome ;  Eve's  right  foot, 

Set  down  upon  a  thistle,  cried  to  her 

Of  a  new  grief;  she  moaned  in  pain,  and  he, 

Adam,  with  tenderness  bent  down  to  it 

And  licked  the  blood  that  sparkled  on  her  skin 

In  drops  the  moonlight  robbed  of  sanguine  stain 

And  turned  to  bright,  black  pearls.     Thus  driven  forth 

Were  they  for  their  transgression,  and  the  guard 

Took  open  order  on  the  fringe  of  Eden, 

Against  whose  frontier  dark  the  sentinels 

Stood  silently,  lit  by  their  burning  swords, 

To  hold  the  garden  precincts ;  while  between 

Each  seraph  and  his  neighbour  still  peeped  out 

The  creatures  of  the  earth  and  howled  farewell 

To  those  white  things  that  had  befriended  them, 

And  taught  their  cubs  to  play  in  Paradise. 

They  crouched  and  lashed  their  tails  and  shook  the  night 

That  Eve  and  Adarn  to  the  wilderness 

Should  pass  away  without  one  lynx  or  pard 

To  purr  beside  them.     All  would  have  rushed  forth 

But  that  the  ring  of  fire  struck  on  their  hearts 

And  sent  them  snarling  back.     For  there  had  been 

A  precious  bond,  a  close  and  curious  link 

Twixt  Adam  and  his  partner  and  the  brutes — 

A  harmony  of  happiness  and  peace 

Now  vanished  from  the  earth.     But  then,  indeed. 

The  first  man  and  his  woman  stood  so  near 

To  all  their  neighbours,  sharing  their  delights 

And  moving  in  that  new-made  world  so  nigh 

To  beast  and  bird  and  saurian,  that  they — 

The  conscious  creatures — knowing  little  more 

Than  woodland  wisdom  shared  with  all  the  rest, 

Guessed  not  the  gap  between.     Had  ape  or  sloth 


72  THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

Broke  heavenly  ordinance  and  ate  the  Fruit, 

Then  had  they  been  the  lords  of  good  and  ill, 

And  haply  ruled  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth 

With  kinder  wit  than  man.     Yet  it  fell  out 

The  creatures  in  the  image  of  their  God 

Won  the  beasts'  homage  by  their  shapes  upright, 

Yet  shared  their  subjects'  ignorance.     The  stag, 

The  tawny  bear,  the  elephant,  the  wolf, 

The  monkey  folk  and  all  the  greater  fowls, 

Composed  their  theme  and  filled  their  human  minds 

With  fascination.     And  betwixt  themselves, 

When  Adam  spoke  to  Eve  or  she  to  him. 

Their  converse  was  abrupt  and  cynical, 

Untinged  by  human  ruth,  or  tender  care 

Each  for  the  other's  inner  happiness. 

And  when  the  shadows  lengthened  and  their  God 

Walked  for  awhile  between  them  through  the  cool 

Of  dewy  evenings,  in  their  simple  way. 

They  chattered  to  Him  of  the  names  they  gave 

Unto  the  great  gier-eagle  on  the  crag. 

Or  hippo,  with  his  mighty  nose  asnort 

Above  the  mud  of  Paradise.     And  He 

Would  listen  with  celestial  gravity 

And  go  His  way  again.     The  couple  lacked 

Much  food  for  thought ;  indeed,  they  never  thought ; 

For  what  had  they  to  think  about  beside 

The  living  present  and  the  daily  joy 

Of  food  and  drink  and  sleep,  and  playtime  shared 

With  lesser  things  as  beautiful  as  they? 

Thus  did  they  live  through  days  not  fuller  fraught 

With  care  and  vision  of  to-morrow's  dawn 

Than  their  companions  of  the  hoof  and  pad 

And  claw  and  shining  wing.     Their  mingled  life 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE  73 

Was  neither  more  complete  nor  beautiful 

Than  that  of  the  striped  tiger  and  his  mate, 

Who  dwelt  together  in  a  porphyry  den 

A  stone's  throw  from  the  holt  that  Adam  wove 

Of  living  boughs  and  green  wood  broken  down 

Wherein  to  sleep  by  Eve.     The  very  birds — 

The  warbler  and  the  chafifinch  and  the  wren, 

Or  the  red  mouse  that  loved  the  seeding  grass — 

Built  snugger  homes  than  they ;  and  they  would  laugh 

And  wonder  how  the  little,  busy  things, 

Having  no  hands,  could  weave  so  close  and  true  ; 

Or  how  the  spider  lined  her  nest  with  silk 

To  hold  her  pearly  eggs.     And  when  they  slept 

They  dreamed  of  good  to-morrows  and  no  more, 

Such  as  the  children  dream. 

Then  came  to  them 
The  scorching  breath  of  knowledge,  and  their  jest : 
To  make  God  laugh  when  He  should  come  and  see 
Them  clad  with  leaves  and  flowers,  as  their  friends 
Were  clothed  with  pelt  and  feathers — their  poor  jest. 
When  they  perceived  them  naked,  brought  them  down 
And  cast  them  out  into  another  world 
Beyond  the  joys  of  Eden. 

That  first  night 
Their  incipient  spirits  wept  some  mournful  while, 
Till  the  moon  sank  upon  a  dreary  rim 
Of  desolation  and  they  watched  the  stars 
Sink  to  earth's  edge  and  vanish  one  by  one, 
Like  tears  that  stole  adown  night's  cheek ;  and  then 
They  turned  to  look  again  where  Paradise 
Lay  in  a  purple  shadow  on  the  east 


74  THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

Under  hei  palms  and  mountains ;  while  along 
Those  far-flung  boundaries  dim  sparks  of  fire 
Twinkled  to  mark  the  soldier  angels  stand. 
Adam  at  last,  in  hollow  of  a  dune, 
Whose  horrent  hair  along  its  crest  sprang  up 
In  withered  bents,  a  place  of  shelter  found 
Where  the  night  wind  came  not ;  and  there  the  man 
His  limping  partner  brought,  then  laid  her  down 
To  sleep  till  day  ;  but  it  was  keen  and  chill 
And,  finding  that  Eve  slumbered,  Adam  came 
As  close  as  he  well  might  to  warm  his  blood 
And  draw  a  little  of  her  golden  mane 
About  his  frozen  bosom. 


Thus  they  slept, 
Until  there  broke  on  earth  another  day, 
Whose  light  unwitting  touched  a  wondrous  sight 
More  pregnant  and  more  precious  to  the  world 
Than  Earth  until  that  dayspring  hour  had  known. 
For  when  young  Eve  awakened,  from  her  eyes 
Flashed  a  new  glory,  something  that  till  now 
Had  never  trembled  in  those  azure  deeps  ; 
And,  with  her  arms  about  her  dreaming  man. 
She  called  to  him,  and  he  arose  to  see 
A  change  in  her  fair  face,  the  which  he  read 
In  light  of  his  own  quickening.     Her  voice 
Proclaimed  a  new  evangel  from  her  heart, 
And  full  upon  the  thin  and  desert  air 
Poured  in  the  ear  of  Adam  such  sweet  words 
That  he  forgot  his  hunger  and  his  grief 
And  looked  at  her,  the  dew  in  her  bright  hair, 
As  subject  on  a  queen. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE  75 

"  My  love  !  "  she  cried  ; 
And  since  the  word  had  never  till  that  dawn 
Set  the  air  singing,  he  forgot  all  else 
And  listened  open-mouthed.     "  My  own  true  love, 
Dost  thou  not  feel  within  thy  bosom's  home 
A  strange  new  spirit,  born  for  me  and  thee? 
Dost  thou  not  pant  with  such  a  joy  that  never, 
Until  this  daybreak  on  the  wilderness, 
Thy  soul  hath  throbbed  to  feel  ?     In  that  sharp  grief, 
While  the  white  seraphim  did  drive  us  out, 
I  felt  the  first  faint  thrill  that  fought  the  grief, 
And  when  you  bent  and  licked  my  wounded  foot. 
Even  then  there  flashed  to  me  a  sudden  bliss 
That  ministered  the  pain  !" 

"And  I,"  said  he, 
"  If  I  had  felt  as  now  I  feel — on  fire 
With  tender  adoration  for  my  Eve — 
Oh,  then,  I  never  should  have  played  the  coward 
And  flung  the  blame  on  you,  my  better  part. 
But  taken  it  myself.     This  light  within. 
That  burns  far  brighter  than  the  eastern  sky, 
Doth  show  how  mean  and  vile  and  base  a  thing 
I  did  to  bleat  that  thou  hadst  tempted  me ; 
For  now  I  grow  to  something  greater  far, 
More  wise  and  more  discerning  than  before 
I  ate  the  Fruit  of  the  Tree.     O  would  that  I 
Had  claimed  the  punishment,  as  meet  I  should, 
And  been  cast  out  and  suffered  happily 
Knowing  that  thou  wert  safe  in  Paradise ; 
For  then  had  I  but  laughed  at  thorns  and  flint 
And  the  cold  night  beneath  the  setting  stars, 
Knowing  my  Eve  safe  in  our  little  lair." 


76  THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

"  Man,  man  !  "  she  answered,  "what  our  lair  to  me, 

And  what  all  Eden  and  the  golden  sun, 

Without  my  Adam  ?     What  the  crystal  founts 

And  aubade  of  the  birds  in  misty  denes? 

And  what  the  morning  mellowness  of  fruits, 

Or  subtle,  magic  fragrance  born  by  night 

From  moony  blossoms,  that  obeyed  the  moon 

And  oped,  all  others  shutting?     Eden's  self 

Had  been  this  ugly  desert  spread  for  Eve 

Without  thee ;  but  beside  thee,  close  and  close, 

Near  as  thy  shadow,  then  these  antres  vast 

And  dreary  vague  of  lion-coloured  dust 

Is  paradise  enough.     For  we  have  won 

From  that  thrice-blessed  Fruit  a  dearer  thing 

Than  all  the  blossomy  paths  of  Paradise 

Knew  how  to  offer.     Through  the  taste  of  it 

We  are  become  above  the  cherubim, 

Who  never  feel,  beneath  the  rainbow  light 

That  dreams  upon  their  bosoms,  what  a  man 

And  woman  feel  when  love  unveils  their  eyes." 

"  We  must  tell  God,"  said  Adam.     "  When  He  knows 

What  hides  within  the  amethystine  rind 

Of  that  sweet  globe  forbidden,  then  will  He 

Make  haste  to  eat  of  it  Himself,  and  so, 

Touched  by  ineffable  and  sacred  love, 

Seek  us,  all  naked  in  the  desert  sand. 

With  pity  on  His  awful  brow.     And  then 

Us  will  He  soon  forgive,  for  if  He  eats, 

A  tender,  lambent  flame  of  gentle  ruth 

Must  burn  within  His  everlasting  Heart 

And  crown  Him  with  pure  mercy."    Thus  the  man ; 

And  then  the  woman's  voice  throbbed  cheerfully. 

"  Him  will  we  tell  how  this  that  He  denied 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE  77 

Has  lifted  us  above  all  lesser  life 

And  made  us  wiser  than  the  seraphim, 

Who  drove  me  forth  so  roughly  that  they  scorched 

My  shoulder  with  their  swords.     But  this  I  know  : 

If  Michael  and  his  winged  ones  had  ate 

From  that  kind  fruit,  as  you  and  I  did  eat, 

A  gentle  pity  would  have  taught  them  sheathe 

Their  brands  and  made  them  weep  to  do  us  harm. 

For  what  to  them  were  we  but  beings  twain. 

No  better  than  the  silly,  little  apes 

That  would  not  come  to  us  from  out  the  wood 

Until  I  tempted  them  with  sugary  fruits 

And  almonds  that  they  loved?     But  now,  but  now 

Are  we  above  all  creatures  lifted  up 

And  wedded  into  one — aye,  wedded  so 

That  life  for  me  is  Adam,  and  for  him 

Nothing  but  Eve.     Let  that  our  Maker  hear, 

And  when  He  learns  what  now  thou  art  to  me 

And  I  to  thee,  and  what  this  lifeless  dust 

And  shadeless  solitude  do  seem  to  be 

With  thy  brown  hand  in  mine,  then  will  He  know 

That  we,  His  creatures,  now  have  haply  found 

A  dearer  and  more  precious  Paradise 

Than  all  the  hosts  of  Heaven  yet  thought  upon. 

Him  we  must  tell,  and  from  our  wondrous  cup 

He  too  shall  drink,  that  He,  our  God,  may  know 

The  blessed  taste  of  mercy." 

"  I  will  bid 
The  seraphim  to  pray  to  Him  for  mates  !  " 
Cried  Adam,  in  a  fervour  that  all  Heaven 
Should  share  the  knowledge  dazzling.     "Yea,  let  Him 
Cast  down  his  hosts  in  slumber  and  withdraw 


78  THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

A  woman  angel  from  each  winged  side, 

So  that  they  cast  away  their  writhing  swords 

Far  from  them  and  rejoice,  as  we  rejoice, 

To  share  a  life  with  dearer  life  than  theirs." 

They  spurred  each  other  on,  and  laughed  to  think 

Of  the  divine  delight  when  God  should  hear 

Their  wondrous  rede ;  and  then  together  turned 

Where  Paradise,  like  a  low  silver  cloud, 

Fretted  the  dawn.     But  now  to  them  there  flew 

Out  of  the  waxing  sky  a  messenger, 

Who  bade  them  keep  their  faces  to  the  void 

And  nevermore  approach  the  sinless  paths 

Their  innocent  feet  had  trod  before  they  fell. 

"Wisdom  hath  spoken,  and  it  is  decreed  " — 

With  unimpassioned  voice  the  angel  spoke — 

"  That  now  ye  thieves  of  wisdom  through  your  span 

Shall  suffer  first  and  bear  the  eternal  fruit 

Of  your  unnatural  sin.     And  when  the  years 

Have  worn  and  withered  you  and  broke  you  down. 

Since  Time  hath  now  dominion  over  you, 

Then  shall  you  die  and  turn  again  to  dust 

From  which  the  Almighty,  in  too  generous  mood, 

Did  lift  you  up.     Begone — your  way  lies  there  ! 

And  know  that  since  the  parents'  sin  must  be 

On  children  visited  for  evermore. 

Ye  shall  have  seed  and  bring  the  race  of  man 

Upon  this  earth  to  taste  the  bitter  drink 

That  ye  have  brewed  for  every  human  lip." 

"  But  we  have  much  to  tell  our  God  !  "  cried  Eve ; 

While  he,  the  servant  of  Omnipotence, 

With  level  tones  indifferent,  broke  to  them 

That  never  more  their  Maker  should  they  see. 

Thereon  he  spread  his  wings,  and  in  the  light 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE  79 

Of  the  red  morning  opened,  petal-wise, 

His  gorgeous  pinions,  like  a  new-born  flower 

All  opal  tinted.     So  he  flew  away, 

And  soon  was  lost  to  sight  upon  the  clouds 

That  day  had  fringed  with  fire. 

A  little  while 
The  pair  stood  very  silent ;  then  young  Eve, 
Mother  of  all  men,  from  her  wide  blue  eyes 
Shaking  the  tear,  that  like  a  diamond  hung 
One  moment  on  her  lashes,  smiled  and  set 
Her  arms  about  our  primal  father's  neck. 
"  Be  of  good  cheer;  we  have  each  other  still, 
My  own  brave  heart !  "  said  she  ;  "  and  what  this  death 
Shall  prove,  concerning  which  the  angel  spake. 
We  know  not  and  we  fear  not ;  for  'tis  sure 
That  death  can  never  be  so  strong,  or  good, 
Or  radiant  and  enduring  and  supreme 
As  love,  that  we  have  won  to  light  our  way 
And  guide  us  through  all  deserts  and  all  griefs. 
And  since  He  will  not  let  us  speak  to  Him, 
Or  tell  Him  of  our  treasure,  it  shall  flow 
For  babes  and  sucklings.     With  their  mother's  milk 
I'll  teach  my  little  children  how  to  love." 


WHERE  MY  TREASURE  IS 

Eternal  Mother,  when  my  race  is  run, 
Will  that  I  pass  beneath  the  risen  sun, 
Suffer  my  sight  to  dim  upon  some  spot 
That  changes  not. 

Let  my  last  pillow  be  the  land  I  love 
With  fair  infinity  of  blue  above  ; 
The  roaming  shadow  of  a  silver  cloud, 
My  only  shroud. 

A  little  lark  above  the  morning  star. 
Shall  shrill  the  tidings  of  my  end  afar ; 
The  muffled  music  of  a  lone  sheep-bell 
Shall  be  my  knell. 

And  where  sto.  e  heroes  trod  the  Moor  of  old ; 
Where  ancient  wolf  howled  round  a  granite  fold ; 
Hide  thou,  beneath  the  heather's  new-born  light, 
My  endless  night. 


80 


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